On a Winter's Eve

by Chris L. Adams

final, awful night when I found myself embattled in those pitch black woods. It seemed to be the coldest winter I had ever experienced, the snow as icy and deep and wind torn as that night of which I grit my teeth at the mere recollection.

  All during the preceding months, when the creatures seemed to disappear as if transported to another dimension entirely, I prepared, girting my loins for the coming fray. My beard had grown to my belt, for in those dark times I disdained any form of personal affectation or habiliment, preferring utility to form.

  I wot not, that night, the path whither my feet trod, thinking only to seek for spoor. Ere I knew it I was veritably in the thick of it. Surrounded on all sides, I slew and slew, my homemade firebrands and flamethrowers coursing red hot death as a volcanic fumarole vomits steam and magma.

  It seemed to me they made a concerted effort to drag me down for I must by then have been infamous amongst their legions, for I had slain a-many of them.

  At the apex of the confrontation that night I found myself faced with the most harrowing, the most determined, of those foul beasts yet – a mighty creature, and daring, diving determinedly under my firebrands as it sought my cold, white flesh with its unearthly talons. It called to its fellows to come at me from behind, a strategy that nearly proved my undoing as typically these things, although fighting in concert, did so at their own behest and not in any sort of cooperative effort.

  A furious burst of savagely cold wind, causing the flying bits of ice to sting my eyes, momentarily stripped the snowy drift from the ground, revealing the splinters of burnt timbers and a blacked stone foundation. I knew then where my unwitting feet had led me, and that it was not for the first time I had battled upon these hallowed grounds.

  For I saw now that it was amongst the aging ruins of father’s burned out cabin that I tangled with these monsters, and that I stood practically where our living room had stood all those years ago. But the monstrosities gave me no time to think on that now, for the great beast came at me once again and the others harried me from behind.

  Struggling in the deep banks of heaped and blowing snow I at last caught the immense creature with a riposte it could in no way evade. A roar of pure, undiluted triumph burst from my frozen throat. In the very next instant, however, I saw that which blasted my courage to atoms.

  I believe it was a sense of shame and guilt of my own failure and the memory of the sight of my father burning alive in that cabin which eventually set me on the determined path I followed for all those years I made war on those things of the frozen forest. The maddening, persisting thought of the loss of my mother and siblings; and that father had been so dauntlessly determined to avenge their deaths at the sacrifice of his own life - while I, the uncourageous, I, the mentally shaken and wrecked youth, simpered and slunk and ran from that place, for all intents a blubbering coward.

  I cannot say with surety.

  But when I brought that homemade firebrand to bear, the flames splitting that beast’s head in twain as surely as the barbarian’s sword sundered the pict’s, it was not some faceless ghoul I stared at. Instead I recognized the face of my father, twisted in a hatred that burned as hot as that which was undoubtedly graven upon my own countenance at that precise moment.

  It seemed then as if the horrors I had for years kept at bay multiplied within me. With my heart quailing in abject fear, I fled, desperately swinging my firebrand at those who sought my life’s blood too closely, exactly as I had once before when I fled this selfsame spot with terror barking at my heels.

  But father’s was not the only visage I recognized that night. Missing neighbors, long lost kin. And I saw my siblings, and mother, too - their faces twisted malignantly, their yellowed eyes glowing from the grotesque forms of creatures that were not of this world.

  How to explain it I know not. Mayhap it was the proximity of this piece of hallowed ground which allowed me to glimpse these faces from my past. But who can blame me if I went a little mad then?

  I have no remembrance of how many more creatures perished to the chaotic swings of my torches nor what path I took from that place. At dawn I was still screaming, albeit hoarsely, scarcely able to walk and yet somehow stumbling onward in desperation. The backward folk of that forsaken place found me after daybreak. They hauled me fifty miles to the nearest town and put me on a train to the city, using money they found in my pockets to purchase the ticket.

  I’ve never returned.

  Nor did I ever marry or spawn any offspring. I witnessed years ago the grief suffered by my parents and wished no part of it. Dearest Megan! Sweet Shelly! Jack… John… your faces – gods! I cannot bear to think on it any longer.

  And those devilish eyes!

  Now I daren’t come too close to any window, especially after nightfall – and mother’s old oil lamp is never far from my side. I feel safe only in the brightest light of day and have moved to the Keys, for I cannot stand the cold - nor the sight of flying, wind-driven snow.

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to extend my heartfelt gratitude to my wife for listening to me go on and on about my stories. Gads – I know she has got to get tired of hearing about it. But she always listens and offers what advice she may – so thanks!

  I wish to express my gratitude to my good friend and sounding board, Scott. Scott is a man after my own heart who enjoys much of the same things in life I do. As such, we talk stories a lot. We both have a hearty love for the pulp era authors and have spent many an evening discussing John Carter, Conan, Cthulhu and Yog-Sothoth.

  I must acknowledge the many fine authors who, after devouring their written material for years and years, influenced me from beyond (for they have all sailed the Darkling Sea, as McKiernan would say) to begin writing myself – to give a little something back to the world of all those rich, well-spun tales I’ve read since I was little. I’m a huge fan of temporal themes, and so, yes, gads do I wish I could time-travel into the past so I might meet in person the likes of Edgar Rice Burroughs, Clark Ashton Smith, H. P. Lovecraft, Edmond Hamilton, A. Merritt, William Hope Hodgson, Robert E. Howard… and many more.

  And I also wish to thank God for giving me whatever it is that drives me to write stories.

  I have only one favor to ask: keep ‘em comin’!

  About the Author

  I was raised on an 80 acre horse farm in what I affectionately refer to as BFE, which is shorthand for Rock, WV :0

  The Farm as my family refers to it is neat, being surrounded almost entirely by the Bluestone River, in the shape of a giant horse shoe, if the horse shoe were bent and mangled and distorted a bit. The only place it is connected to 'dry land' so to speak is a railroad tunnel built in 1914 running through the narrow stretch of land that isn't under the river. So gads, I know my mom feared for my life while I was growing up, as this place is surrounded by a river, it has cliffs, wooded trails, wild life, the railroad tunnel, you name it.

  I would scale cliffs, pole down the river in a flat bottom boat like Huck Finn, and me and my buddies played war with an arsenal of BB guns. I've heated up many a derriere with my trusty Red Ryder, and had the favor returned tenfold. Where we lived they didn't have cable, and my folks wouldn't pay for satellite, so I ran the woods and cliffs, rode horses, climbed trees, waded, etc until dark, then I would read.

  I read a lot. I read everything I could get my hands on, from classics, romances, you name it. Then I discovered Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, H. P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, in short - I fell in love with a bunch of authors who were mostly dead years before I was born. I knew after I read what was out there, there would be no more.

  Some of their works are obscure, and I've thoroughly enjoyed every volume I've ever stumbled on or run to ground. I love collecting old paperback reprints of these guys— Oh yeah, there's Edmond Hamilton, A. Merritt, the entire Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series (which I've yet to complete). There are others, Philip M. Fisher, Lester del Rey, the list goes on. These a
re the guys who drive the type of writing I'm attracted to emulate. You'll find their influence heavily in everything I write, whether it's a short macabre piece, or a fisticuffs, or any other form of arm chair adventure you care to mention - they're there. Tarzan, John Carter, Conan, Malygris, Avyctes, Dwayanu, Cthulhu, Randolph Carter, they're all there...

  An Invitation

  My dear reader,

  I do hope you enjoyed this wintery little tale.

  I wish to extend an invitation to leave feedback for this story in the form of a review should you be so inclined. As an independent author, you should know your ratings and reviews are crucial. It is through your opinions that one who writes stories gains much coveted encouragement to continue to fashion and publish tales.

  So join the discussion about On a Winter’s Eve. Revisit the site from which you downloaded this story and let me know what you thought of it. Did you like it, or was it meh? Did it remind you of a favorite author? It is entirely possible because I write the kind of stuff I love to read, to wit: Edgar Rice Burroughs, A. Merritt, H. P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, Lester Del Rey, Edmond Hamilton and so on.

  Never heard of some of these guys? I encourage you with my whole heart to seek them out. Their works are amazing. And believe me, there is so much